Dirtying The Dirt
by January Love Affair
Summary: Scarecrow, scarecrow,  How scary can you be?  You scared them all, But you didn't scare me!       A bunch of one-shots based on the life of Jonathan Crane.  Rated M for swearing,violence,and all the messed up things in Jonny's mind.
1. Dirt

He was bleeding.

The murky red trickle of liquid oozed away from his scalp, following the curvature of his nose, dripping onto his cheeks. Wavering at the edge of his chin, as if unsure at its departure, the droplets fell unceremoniously into the dirt.

That is what he focused on.

Forget the bruises that dotted the lower-half of his arms. Forget the possibility that his wrist was broken. Forget that his shirt was covered in mud, ripped in half a dozen places. Forget everything, except for the fact that those drops darkening the soil and sliding off leaf blades once belonged to him.

He blinked as another dribble of blood flooded from his hairline, passing dangerously close to his left eye. Unlike the first, this drip didn't pause on its journey, opting in favor to splash on the ground. He concentrated on this splatter, watching as a bit of himself flowed around the pebbles and speckled the dandelions.

So inconsequential.

So unnoticeable.

So pointless.

He was dirtying the dirt.

_**Sticks and stones can break my bones**_

"Get up. Get up, you. Fucking four-eyed faggot. You can take it. Get up."

Two boys stood above him, like ominous dark shadows, blocking the sun. One of them, the shorter of the two, stepped forward and kicked him hard in the stomach. Doubling over, Jonathan Crane glanced up at his attackers.

Bo Griggs. Scott Eaton.

Both sporting identical sickly sweet smiles and shadowy eyes, the only difference between them coloration and stature, they loomed into his vision.

"Sticks. Come on, stand up, Sticks! Come on, show us how!" Scott, burly and scraggily haired taunted. Bringing a hand to Jonathan's hair, he grasped and pulled, igniting another sharp burst of pain. Closing his eyes, he heard a low chuckling.

The hand lost the grip in his hair, forcing Jonathan to tumble down to the soil, face crunching into the soil. Dirt, intermixed with his dried blood smudged his cheeks-filling his mouth.

"-Wonder," he heard the other, _Bo_, mutter. "Keeps his fucking nose stuck in damn book all the time, but can't fight worth shit. Not a big surprise."

"Bet he uses those _skills_ to fuck his grandma."

Another chuckle.

"You hear that, Sticks? We know what you get up to in that farm of yours. Tell us, is it nice, fucking your grandma?"

_**But words can never hurt me**_

Mouth mashed into the ground, Jonathan could hardly breathe, much less than speak. He heard what they were saying, but it was a distorted sound in his ears, like television static.

_Maybe, maybe if he pushed a little farther into the dirt, he'd have the peace he desired so badly. The dirt would clot his mouth, fill his lungs. He'd suffocate. And it would be over. Mercifully over. He wouldn't have to stumble home to his grandmother. Her eyes wouldn't widen. She wouldn't clutch the dog-eared, weather-worn Bible to her chest. She wouldn't scream at him, spittle flying from her lips. She wouldn't push him into the church. He wouldn't stagger into the darkness of the cathedral, pinwheeling his arms about. He wouldn't see the crows. He wouldn't feel them scratching at his already-torn clothes. He wouldn't hear them. _

_He wouldn't hear anything._

But, Jonathan knew, from a good deal of experience, that it wouldn't happen.

He would not be spared from life, or even allowed to rest. Something conspired to keep him alive, keep him suffering.

And death, peaceful and oh-so-desirable as it was, wouldn't open its arms to him.

Death, as with Bo, Scott and his grandmother, reveled in his suffering.

So, when the two boys walked away, kicking his shins and dumping the rinds of their apples on his chest, Jonathan wasn't _surprised_ that his body willed him to sit up. He wasn't _shocked_ when his hands reached up to brush off the loose clumps of dirt from his t-shirt. He wasn't _horrified_ as he fished his backpack and his books (all waterlogged) from a line of assorted mud puddles. He wasn't _amazed_ at his stumbling gait as he headed back to the farm.

But she, the grandmother, _was_ all those things.

Being dragged through the great doors of the church, Jonathan could only gaze at the specks of blood on his shoes.

Thinking of the part of him he hadn't been able to remove from the road.


	2. Knowledge

_**Have you ever seen  
>a scarecrow,<br>A scarecrow,  
>a scarecrow?<strong>_

Eyes wide, Jonathan studied the darkness.

An attack could come from anywhere, no matter how unsuspecting or seemingly harmless. His eyes lit on the rafters. Were they there, hidden behind the beams of wood? He thought he saw a bit of movement from the ceiling, but he couldn't be sure. The shadows moved at their own accord, shifting as his mind created shapes that didn't really exist. He had to stop that.

He couldn't afford to be careless tonight.

There was a fluttering by the organ.

Taking in a jagged breath, he focused on the dark outline of the monstrous musical instrument. A sharp whine of wind blew through the pipes, leaving a ghostly whisper of sound in its wake.

Jonathan shivered.

Suddenly, the rotten base of the organ, peppered with holes and covered with mold, seemed the perfect hideout for a murder of crows. He imagined them, black beady eyes unblinking, feathers rustling. Waiting for the moment. Waiting for him.

He took a tentative step forward, looking around for a protective alcove to dive into. There were none.

Freezing, his eyes darted from the rafters-back to the organ.

Up, down, up, down.

Allowing a moment of quiet to pass, Jonathan finally relaxed. His shoulders loosened. His breathing slowed.

He wasn't prepared when the attack came.

_**Have you ever seen a scarecrow  
>With ten hungry birds?<br>Ten birds, ten birds,  
>Ten wing-flapping birds.<br>Have you ever seen a scarecrow  
>With ten hungry birds?<strong>_

They flooded out from the pews, beaks shrieking and wings thrashing, pecking his head and beating his body. Shouting, Jonathan reached up a hand, only to drag it away immediately from the snapping beaks of an angry bird. Enshrouded in a dark curtain of crows, Jonathan tried in vain to get away. No matter how many times he pushed, gaining an inch, the birds would be right back on him, driving him backwards onto the ground.

Gulping out deep breaths, Jonathan turned his head to the floor. The crows seemed to taunt his pain, their constant screeching morphing into a laugh.

A high laugh.

A scratchy laugh.

The grandmothers laugh.

Renewed in hatred, Jonathan scrambled on the ground for something, anything. His hands closed around a bit of free wood, uneven and rough enough to bite into his fingers.

_There. Get up. Swing. _

Mustering his strength, he pushed himself up just as a particularly loud and violent crow flew close to his eye. Raising the makeshift weapon, he brought it down on the birds' skull.

He watched as the creature shook its head, flight faltering in the unexpected vertigo. It seemed to stare at him, puzzled.

Brandishing the wood again, Jonathan waved it at the crow. Letting out a frightened caw, the bird flew up to the rafters, eyeing him from the upper balcony.

Looking back at the other crows, Jonathan steeled his shoulders. Amazingly, he felt a smile spread on his face. What a nice present he'd given himself. How thoughtful.

_Happy Birthday to Me. _

_**Have you ever seen a scarecrow,  
>a scarecrow, a scarecrow?<br>Have you ever seen a scarecrow  
>Scare one bird away?<br>One bird, one bird  
>one wing-flapping bird.<br>Have you ever seen a scarecrow  
>with nine hungry birds?<strong>_


End file.
